The Journal of Karl
by 0ldMonk
Summary: World War 2. 1945. The Battle of Berlin. Follow Gruppenführer Karl while he leads his squad through the urban firefights. All for the glory of the Führer. A last stand. Coincidences will lead him to the hidden side of the world.


**Author's Note:**

 _A dear friend of mine kidnapped Muse-chan and fed her some bullshit to which this fanfiction was created. I hope you will enjoy it._

 **Disclaimer:**

 _This is a work of fanfiction using parts like the worldbuilding from Harry Potter which is trademarked by J.K. Rowling. As you can guess, I do not own anything of the Harry Potter books. Only this piece of fanfiction belongs to me._

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 **Volkssturm**

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 **Karl** 's back pressed against the concrete wall while he gripped his rifle, reminding him that yes he was not without a weapon to fight the oncoming storm of red mass. He ground his teeth as an explosion shook the ground, scattering wrecked bricks around. Dust settled, washing the air with smoke as furniture burned and getting him to a coughing fit which he tried to immediately silent.

He heard the fearing sound of gunfire, unmistakenly the staccato of a machine gun. He did not know if it was the enemy or an ally, but his right hand was clutching the rifle grip, fearing it would vanish into thin air, even if that was impossible. His middle finger was stabbed into the thumbhole as he caressed the cold trigger. His other hand was embracing the hard wooden forend like a jealous girlfriend fearing a breakup. An apt description as the Gewehr 88 was his only weapon where he had enough ammunition to shoot.

His head snapped to the right as he saw his Volkssturmmann almost tripping over a corpse. A sigh escaped his mouth as the young squad member gave him a sheepish smile, not for the first time he cursed his Zugführer for assigning naive children to his squad. His eyes wandered to his military insignia on the shoulder, one Pip. He lamented the decision of his high ranking officer, the Lieutenant, to promote him to Gruppenführer.

He did not really have a problem with leading a squad, yet he hated the fact that the Hitler Youth was conscripted into a meaningless war. Victory was impossible at this stage, a hopeless naive dream to deceive the children and letting them fight for the Führer, a madman. He never was married to the Ideology in contrast to his wife who even read Hitler's book 'Mein Kampf', fully convinced of the Aryan Race.

He once read a passage of the book and was disgusted. It made his blood boil at the thought of considering other humans animals. The concept of blood purity to classify other humans as lowly creatures, animals, was inhuman to his understanding.

He took a deep breath as he let go of the forend and pointed at his squad members, then down to the ground where he was. They gathered behind him with their weapons ready, although he did not think for one second that they were ready to kill for survival. A sad affair of life when children must take arms, he thought melancholy.

He led his Gruppe, a squad of children who only knew war as glory for the Führer, to a corner of a ruined house. He halted, raising his arm, showing them a fist. They stilled too, yet fidgeting with their guns as he slightly turned his head to glance at them.

Artillery impacts close by knocked the breath out of him as a tremble caught them all. Fortunately, the pounding of the shells did not last long. He was almost relieved but shouts and yells in another language chilled his bones. His squad held their breath as he took the risk of a peek. His eyes saw a troop of enemy soldiers of the Polish People's Army. Of course, he would recognize these partisans, after all, he fought them in Poland. Twelve men, he counted. Against his squad of eight untrained children, it would be a massacre, he admitted. His stomach felt uneasy since he took off with his squad, scouting the enemy lines which to be fair, were very very close.

He peeked again, a small tiny movement of his head, this time watching carefully if they would close on his squad. His eyes saw a female in black robes and a strange hat eerily similar to that of a witch hat. His heart pounded in his ears as he tried to make sense of that strange officer. His face froze into a stone cold grim look as he watched how she waved some wood at a dying soldier who then was miraculously healed, the bullets were pushed out of his body, his skin knitted, showing unblemished skin without a scare. It should be impossible, he thought in bewilderment. Confusion swirled in his mind, muddling his thought as he considered the implications.

 _Magic_ could not be real, he denied even in the sight of such a miracle. Unfortunately, he knew that they will discover his squad as another injured enemy soldier laid on the ground very close to their position, but did not notice them luckily. His hands clenched onto his trusted Gewehr while he heard behind him some loading their weapons with the charger clip, holding five rounds.

Fortunately, the enemy did not have submachineguns, but the Mosin-Nagant, a bolt-action rifle like the Gewehr 88. His Stahlhelm, his trusty steel helmet, felt heavy as he contemplated his next action. They should have the surprise if they ambushed them, he considered while training his eyes on the strange woman. Yet that did not make him feel better as the woman was unknown, an enigma. He did not know her capabilities which made the situation worse, his view wandered down to her hand, clasped around the wood.

He needed to know which of them were the greater threat: The enemy officer or the strange woman.

"If, if she could really do _magic_ ," he muttered, "could she turn us all into pigs?" He did not know the answer to that question, but he was ever a cautious man who survived in Poland against the cruel partisans. He assumed, entertained that she could do magic whatever it was in the end.

He turned to his soldiers and ordered, "Take all Stielhandgranaten. Every grenade you have." He took his grenade in his left palm, feeling the cold wooden handle of the Stielhandgranate. He watched as his soldiers obeyed, clumsily taking the grenades out, forgoing the grip on the weapons. His eyes widened as one of them almost dropped the grenade. His harsh glare subdued the child who gripped the Stiel of the grenade so hard that his knuckles whitened.

"We have only one chance. Twelve trained men," began he saying, "who will shoot without mercy." His look wandered to each of his soldiers, seeing their pale frightened faces, reassured him that they would know the consequences of failure.

"S-sir, Gruppenführer. Your o-orders?" One of his Volkssturmmann asked him.

He smiled grimly at them, raising the Stielhandgranate and said, "I want the best throwers. Another one for holding the Stielgranaten who will give them the next grenade to throw." Three boys between the ages of 15 to 18 stepped up, their hands clasped around the Stiel tightly, yet confident. Another one young boy, certainly 13 years old, held the grenades.

He continued, "The rest of you will shoot, shoot and shoot at them until nothing moves anymore. Understood?" They all nodded enthusiastically.

"Very good. Now, we will take position in the house. The second floor will be where you will throw the grenades out while the rest will take the ground floor," he said. "If you threw everything, then use your rifle to shoot. Do not conserve ammo."

He gave his grenade to them, turned to the side, clasped his left hand on the doorknob and pushed lightly while being careful to not make any noises. Slowly he opened the door and entered the house, his Volksturmmänner behind him, stepping lightly on the floor as much as possible to not give the enemy any warnings.

The house was mostly destroyed, fortunately, the wall in the direction of the enemy troop was not. As the thrower with their holders went up, he led the rest close the windows and turned to them, saying, "Now, listen very carefully. I will shoot first, signalling to our throwers while you all will fire after me. Fire at will mostly, but if you see a strange woman with something like a witch hat, then target her. She will be the priority target. I want her totally punctured by lead. Understood?"

"Yes, Herr Gruppenführer," whispered a 16 years old boy while his fellow soldiers nodded vigorously. They held their Gewehr ready with the stock pressed against the pocket of the shoulder and fingers on the triggers. He nodded at them, motioned with his head for them to spread out to the other windows which they did.

He calmed himself with deep breaths as he shouldered the Gewehr 88, his left hand gripping the wooden forend while his right the rifle grip, finger stroking the trigger as he leaned a little out of his cover. His dominant right eye narrowed as he aimed through the open iron sight at the centre of mass of the woman in fluttering robes who did not suspect anything.

He stilled his breathing while holding the muzzle still as he pressed the trigger. A loud crack echoed through the street as the bullet hissed through the air into the target.

But the bullet did not tear through the woman, instead, it hit an invisible shield, flashing blue. His eyes could not believe it, so frozen in shock was he, fortunately, the explosion of the Stielhandgranaten brought him out of his daze. He saw how three men died instantly while two others lost their legs to the grenade. Still 8 men more and one witch who made a pact with Satan.

His Volksturmmänner fired, some missing while others down two men. Another explosion killed three enemies and injuring two others. Just two enemies and the witch.

He saw how the witch had difficulties trying to defend against the bullets. A whizzing sound closed in to which turned to cover, escaping having a bullet in his body while one of his boys was not so lucky as he caught the bullet straight in his head. The dead body slumped down, panicking others. The sight made him feel guilty, yet he pushed it away and concentrated on the battle.

The last two enemy soldiers were punctured by the combined lead of the second floor.

The last enemy alive was the witch who stepped slowly carefully backwards, trying to get to cover. He could not let her live, so he vaulted over the window. His boots pounded into the dirt as he rushed to her, followed by his two boys.

He watched how her pretty ocean blue eyes widened and her wand rose slightly. Out of the corner of his right eye, he noticed a concrete block flying at them.

He crashed into the boy near him, dodging and saving them from being transformed into bloody pulp. He glanced to the right and saw his Volkssturmmann without legs, his eyes desperate met his eyes, begging for help. Instead, he ignored it painfully as he grabbed the rifle of the boy who he saved and stormed to the fucking bitch.

Before she could do that shit again, a bullet tore through her brain, splattering blood and bits of brain meat everywhere.

His relief was palpable as he looked back to the house where the sharpshooter was. The Volksturmmann saluted to him while the other boys cheered, patting him for the excellent service.

He sighed, totally relieved, yet something itched in his mind. He was very curious about the wood she held. He neared her corpse and crouched down. His hand took her pale cold hand, opened the fingers and pulled the wood out of her clench.

As he gripped the wood tightly, feeling the slightly warm sensation, he waved a little unsure. Yet bright yellow sparks sizzled out of the wand.

"Was zur Hölle?!" cursed he as the surprise shocked him, almost giving him a heart attack.

"Herr Gruppenführer, what's that?" asked the boy to his left, curiously written on his face.

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 **Author's Note:**

 _Thanks for reading this prologue. Tell me if you are interested at how a supposed muggle would view the wizard world after the second world war. Should our protagonist Karl be a Wizard or not? Both could make for interesting stories._


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